I've had difficulty "singing the praises of the Mets" lately...except in some sort of out-of-tune way.  Thus, the absence of recent posts.

I keep waiting for the chance to vocalize in a fully supported manner, but this less-than-encore-deserving run of Mets losses has only inspired me to warbling off-key humor.

Fact:  the Mets have suffered an unbelievable number of injuries (record-breaking?) this season.  Their struggle to stay competitive in spite of this has been admirable if not downright miraculous.  

I've seen and heard it all: 

"The Mets are playing hurt." 

"The Mets are putting a Junior Varsity team out there." 

"The Mets just have to tread water until the regulars get back." 

"Just wait until after the All-Star break." 

"You can't blame them:  some of these players are minor-leaguers."

Agreed.

But even with those disclaimers and glass-half-full observations, last night's loss was a new low.

From F-Mart's blooper-reel-worthy performance in the outfield to our ace Santana's bases on balls and dugout temper tantrum, it was a night to test even the most ardent fan's patience.

Meanwhile, in that never-ending side-bar story to any Met fan's daily digest--hoping the Phillies will at least lose (and barring that, the Yankees)--the Atlanta Braves did manage to help us out: aided by the mere threat of Jeff Francouer donning his magic underwear,

Go ahead and laugh.  I am.

Matt Cerrone of MetsBlog recently excoriated manager Jerry Manuel for jokingly looking for his (hidden) offense under the table when asked about the Mets' bats at his post-game press conference on Sunday night following the derailed Subway Series.

Maybe, at least in Cerrone's opinion, Manuel is not in a position to kid around.  And, granted, the Mets' falling further and further below .500 is no laughing matter.

I, on the other hand, am in a position to joke around and, in fact, have now arrived at the "what else can you do but laugh" point.

And with that little prelude in mind, I offer up (with apologies to my Mom, a die-hard Braves fan) some contrasting themes between the Mets' and Braves' clubhouses:

The Mets' offense has flown the coop and, especially last night, they are looking like a bunch of birdbrains in the field; the Braves are closing in on us, their right-fielder bluffing about lucky turkey shorts.

The Mets are awaiting the return of Major-League ready jocks; the Braves are talking jockeys.

The Mets need their A-Team; the Braves are talking G-strings.

The Mets desperately need the long ball; the Braves are talking long johns.

 You get the idea.

Laughing keeps me from crying: 

after all, I don't want to be perceived as a pantywaist.

Original artwork "Phillie Cheese Steak Brand" From the "Orange Crate Label Series: The Unauthorized History of Baseball in 1-Odd Paintings" (2005) by Ben Sakoguch courtesy of the artist.. 

"I wonder what it must be like to be Luis Castillo, waking up this morning," my husband said on our morning walk with the dog.

"I'll bet it all seemed like a bad dream, and then he realized the disaster had not been a dream," I responded.

Luis Castillo's dropping what should have been a routine fly ball that would've ended the game with a Mets win but instead resulted in a brutal Mets loss at Yankee Stadium last night no doubt resulted in loss of sleep by the player himself and countless interested parties in the tri-state area.  No doubt, this botched play was also part of many Mets fans' morning ruminations.

Thinking of the incident in the context of a bad dream led me to think about my own and others' nightmares and their origins.

Even though I have not been in a broadcast studio on any regular basis for seventeen years, my years as an announcer for public radio stations in Kansas and Washington are the basis of nightmares I have to this day: 

I'm stumbling around the music library, trying to find a CD while the unbearable silence of dead air over the station's monitors provides the (non-) background music to my insufferably slow search for some appropriate music to play. 

  "Hmm.  A Beethoven String Quartet?  How about a Mozart overture?  No.  I'd have to run back here and get something else longer to follow that.  Hurry!  Hurry!  Just PICK something!"

It amazes me that the challenges of my professional radio days continue to formulate my subconsious, even many years later.

Less surprising are the nightmares I have in which I am at my place of employment--the Metropolitan Opera.  These dreams have a recurring scenario:  I can hear the orchestra playing in the pit and the singers onstage.  No matter what I do, I cannot find how to get into the pit.  Yet, the music keeps going and going. 

I can literally hum along my own part to the music as it keeps going and going, but every passageway I take ends in a dead-end, and the closest I can ever get to my designated chair in the orchestra is looking down into the pit from various high vantage points in the opera house.

Baseball players must have similar profession-related dreams, don't you think? 

I bet it would very interesting hearing the details of those nocturnal visions, fueled by each player's specific phobias. 

To some, perhaps certain ballparks loom large and formidable. 

Perhaps batters dream of facing a particularly daunting pitcher:  Randy Johnson in his prime, for example. 

Those dreams everyone has in which one needs to flee but is running slow-motion in quicksand?  Perhaps the equivalent is that a player's bat speed has decreased so significantly that he can't keep up with any pitches at all.

While I would be curious to hear what happens in ballplayers' reveries, I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to see the stuff of nightmares played out in front of my very eyes as I and thousands of groaning Mets fans did last night.

I have a feeling Luis Castillo and that routine pop-up will be seeing one another at night for years to come.

"I Got It", by Sherry De Ghelder, St. Louis Burb, Missouri, USA.  Oil on panel.

For information about this work and the artist, go to:

http://www.sherrydeghelder.com/home.htm

http://24-7apaintingaday.blogspot.com/2008/05/i-got-it-painting-in-day.html

The team in the Bronx seems to have a new PR fiasco every time I open the papers.  While I'm usually mildly amused by this, the latest dispute struck home for this fan from Queens.

The issue in question was that of Batting Practice policy at (the NEW) Yankee Stadium:  namely, who may observe from what location.  Apparently, Yankee brass listened to recent complaints and the policy has already been altered.

Though not nearly so blatantly elitist, Citi Field's slight change from its previous BP policy at Shea Stadium has not gone unnoticed either.  Limiting fans' access to more remote areas than before has incited the wrath of early-arriving Mets fans.  A fellow blogger has started a personal letter-writing campaign in an effort to have this policy amended, and others have followed.

From reading this blogger's previous posts, I happen to know that one of the personal pleasures she took from attending BP at Shea was the opportunity to get some great photos of the players.  It was her chance, she recently wrote, not only to see the players "up close and personal" but also to shoot photos the quality of which her Upper Deck seat could not have afforded her.

Although I have not yet arrived at Citi Field early enough to watch BP, I often did so at Shea.  I, too, cherished those opportunities to train my Nikon on my favorite players.  While I had a great camera and a pretty good zoom lens, nothing I could shoot from my seat in my Mezzanine Box could come close--literally--to the images I shot from vantage points near and behind the dugout on the Field Level during BP.

I would classify myself as an advanced amateur photographer, and it should be noted that the images I have taken are only for my own personal use.  I've not nor would I sell any of my photos or use them in any money-making endeavors.

Even given my non-professional status, my husband has always been my biggest supporter in this (expensive) hobby.  Not even knowing about the change in BP policy at Citi Field, he surprised me this week with a Mother's Day present far better than any box of chocolates or bouquet of flowers: an even longer zoom lens.   

Although we are mostly pleased with our seats behind Home Plate in the Promenade Club at Citi Field, we have noticed that our seats are higher than the ones we occupied at Shea.  The photos I've taken from our Citi Field seats have proven that to be true as well.  For this reason, and because he's just a swell guy, my husband purchased a lens for me that essentially puts me an additional 100 millimeters closer to the action. 

(The above photo of David Wright was taken with the gift:  a 70-300mm/4.5-5.6  AF-S VR Nikkor zoom.)

For me personally, part of the shooting problem is resolved.  But would it really be so difficult for--dare I say it--the Mets to follow the Yankees' lead(!) and amend their current policy to make it more fan- and photog-friendly? 

The season is young, and yet you can already feel it at Citi Field:  fans' expectations are high. And patience is not in abundance.

Players are already hearing disapproval.  Even fan-favorite David Wright--striking out at record numbers recently--has been getting his share of boos.

I've never booed a player, nor have I booed a performer in the opera house or concert hall.  But I've observed many people who are seemingly completely comfortable in doing so.

I guess my hesitation in heckling is that I give the artist or player the benefit of the doubt that he is doing his best.  The result may be less than I--and perhaps the performer--had hoped for or expected, but I rarely have reason to think that an honest effort is not being made.

Also, as an adherent (most days) to the "positive reinforcement" school of parenting, I guess I'm just a little uncomfortable screaming antagonisms at others, whether the venue is the theater, opera house, concert hall, ballpark or playground.  The parenting books I've read espouse "catching them being good" and then heaping on the praise.  Berating or humiliating a child, this philosophy holds, is not beneficial, especially if the mistake is one from which a lesson may be learned.

At Citi Field, my sense is that hecklers have been quick to express discontent early this season primarily because of the frustrating way in which the past two seasons have ended for the Mets.  The team's performance early and midway through both the 2007 and 2008 seasons led fans to believe that it was not unreasonable to expect to see October baseball in Queens. 

A contending team that inexplicably falls off the charts late in the season--and repeats the exercise the following year--leaves a bitter taste that does not easily go away.

Although I wouldn't do it myself, I can at least understand the fan, frustrated by squandered chances, giving an audible voice to his exasperations.

However, I question the idea, made by some, that money--that earned by players and that spent by fans--somehow entitles one to heckling.

I often hear fans cite the "outrageous" salaries of today's ballplayers as justification for calling out a player for a poor outing. (Interestingly, while solo artists can earn thousands of dollars per performance, I have not yet heard an audience member mention an artist's compensation as justification for publicly voicing a personal commentary.  It should be pointed out, though, that unless you're Renee Fleming or Placido Domingo, even those large per-performance fees don't approach the salaries of today's professional athletes.) 

Personally, I don't think the player who has fairly negotiated a higher salary should be held to higher standards than lesser-paid players.  Nor do I feel that, if those inflated expectations are not met, the player should be booed more vociferously than underperforming players who are not paid as much.

In this time when funds are limited and folks are worried about their financial security, more attention than ever before is being paid to ticket prices.  Both sports presenters and arts organizations are seeing reductions in numbers of series or subscription ticketholders. 

Not only that, this Los Angeles Times piece leads me to believe that more in the audience and in the stands are feeling that the higher ticket and concession prices themselves entitle them to heckle if they are so inclined.

This post is not meant as a personal diatribe against the bood-bird, per se.  Judging from this website, there are apparently some who consider heckling a sport unto itself.

But if some feel entitled to behave in a certain manner merely by virtue of being a consumer, that does make me uncomfortable.

Freedom of expression is a right we are freely given as U.S. citizens; we have not purchased the privilege. 

If equating admission price itself with license to publicly express one's opinion in a derisive manner becomes a more universally held view and if this recession does not turn around any time soon, I have to wonder what kind of entertainment experiences--both on the field and stage AND in the audience and stands--we could find ourselves privy to.

Has the proverbial fat lady sung for pitcher Pedro Martinez?

It's fascinating to me how an athlete's career trajectory and that of a professional singer can have such similarities.

At the MET--as at many other opera houses--productions and performances are scheduled and cast years in advance.  This is necessary because it is the only way to engage jet-setting conductors and singers who have managers securing them bookings years in advance all over the world.

One of the consequences of such early planning, however, can be that--with so much intervening time between the booking and the performances, it's possible that the artist in question could be be experiencing vocal trouble or some other malady unforseen at the time of the booking. 

Or perhaps the role for which the artist was engaged was well-suited to his or her voice at the time of the booking but in the span of time before the performances, the oice has changed.  Perhaps the artist has lost a bit of the "bloom" on the top of the voice or the voice has darkened.  Or perhaps he/she does not possess the same tessitura--range--he/she once did.

In such cases, it is not unheard of for a singer to be "bought out":  paid their fee not to sing.  Another singer is then quickly found as a replacement.  This is usually done by way of a public announcement stating that the initial artist has bowed out due to illness, but those in-the-know are aware of the real story.

Sometimes, though, the original artist remains in the show.  Management--and the artist himself/herself (if there is any self-awareness there)--cross their fingers and hope for the best. 

Often a much-beloved artist can go onstage and give it his/her best effort and, even if the singing is not as great as in the artist's prime, the adoring public will overlook any present-day flaws and give the singer the accolades to which he/she has become accustomed--even if the performance does not particularly merit that response..

Unless the artist is extremely popular, if the "suspension of belief" required to recall the artist's glory days is just too great or there are a host of glaring problems, e.g., wobbles that have developed in the voice, faulty intonation, or a lack of breath support, the artist may not escape embarassment.  He or she will likely hear a few boos sprinkled in with tepid applause at curtain calls.

The latter is my fear for a Pedro Martinez return to the New York Mets.

I don't remember hearing much interest in Pedro until now:  only after not one of the potential fifth-starters has distinguished himself in Spring Training. 

While it's certainly possible that Pedro has retooled himself and could contribute to the pitching roster in some way, my fear is that the minute he has a faulty start, the Shea, oops, Citi Field crowd will show little patience for lack of velocity on his fastball or faulty location. 

Just as I feel very sad when I hear a once-great singer onstage whose present-day performance bears little resemblance to the "glory days", I would feel similar pangs to see this three-time Cy Young award winner embarass himself or have criticisms and boos heaped upon him.

He's had too distinguished a career to go out in any other way than holding his head up high.

No, in lieu of Pedro, I don't have any suggestions for the fifth spot.

The words of the late soprano Beverly Sills come to mind: 

"I retired when I was 51 so people would say 'Why so soon'?' instead of 'When will that woman shut up?"

"March is the month of expectation,
The things we do not know,
The Persons of Prognostication
Are coming now.
We try to sham becoming firmness,
But pompous joy
Betrays us, as his first betrothal
Betrays a boy."
-   Emily Dickinson, XLVIII

I write this from the Palm Beach airport, awaiting a flight that will return to a New York under a Winter Storm Watch...sigh.

Not only that, in order to facilitate my timely arrival, I had to forego the last day of our family's Spring Training escape and will now miss tomorrow's game at Tradition Field. 

I do not know if the "prognosticators" are correct about eight inches of snow, but my family and I decided not to take our chances and perhaps be stranded where I sit now for up to two full days.

As I sit here, slightly worried about the weather forecast and the fact that each of the members of our family will likely sit separately on this flight, I'm finding it hard not to think about a potentially bigger worry surrounding "things we do not know": 

I'm referring to the condition of Johann Santana's elbow.

Having seen two promising games at Port St. Lucie, I can't help but feel "pompous joy" about my team.  But something like Santana requiring surgery would turn that joy to sorry and anxiety.

I hope the New York weather forecasters and the gnawing worry about Santana are both proven wrong.

Port St. Lucie, FL--February 27, 2009

Perhaps it was the realization that Ms. Scilieri's sixth grade science class was convening as we sat in the stands at Tradition Field, fifty feet away from Carlos Delgado.  Whatever it was that prompted it, my daughter--absent from school but very present in yesterday's Mets Home Opener at Tradition Field--perked up her ears at my husband and I mentioning how intrigued we were with Jerry Manuel's "experiment".

Following the lessons learned back home at Leonia Middle School, my daughter asked us what Jerry's "hypothesis" was.

"Would the Mets score more runs with Luis Castillo leading off in the Number One spot and with Jose Reyes moved down to third in the batting order?" was our response.

Jerry's--and our--"scientific observations" seemed to happily support the hypothesis.  Although he only played the first couple of innings, the noticeably slimmer Castillo get on base several times and looked like he was moving well.

And, as far as Reyes getting runs in, a grand slam batting left and a home run later in the game batting right-handed were equally positive results supporting the hypothesis.

That's all for now.  The family is departing for Tradition Field to collect more observations...

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I'm making my pilgrimage one week from today!!

"...Where'd Ya Get Them PEE- PERS?!"

Many National League batters will be getting their first glimpse of K-Rod very soon.  But besides watching him intently to see if he's tipping his pitches, players and coaching staff may also be taking a double-take at the Mets' new closer for an arresting facial feature:  his eyes.

Francisco Rodriguez succeeded in making his already newsworthy arrival at camp even more eye-catching (ouch!), sporting red contact lenses.

According to the New York Post, Rodriguez claims that the special lenses help in reducing glare and that wearing the lenses negates his needing to wear his signature glasses.

Hearing how daunting those in camp found his scarlet gaze, I wondered if the lenses might serve a dual purpose:  reducing glare and instilling fear in the opposing batter.

I often enjoy thinking of similarities in the world of sports and my own professional world:  classical music.

Although the days of the autocratic music director who used fear, public humiliation and threat of termination to get his desired result are essentially over (Thankfully, musicians are unionized as well.), the age of tyrants of the podium is not actually that far in the musical past.

In fact, only several days ago in the New York Times' TimesTraveler Blog feature, a story ran in the Times 100 years ago that day was featured.  The story announced Gustav Mahler as having been engaged as the next conductor of the New York Philharmonic.  A prolific composer as well as a fine conductor, this was indeed a coup for the ensemble.

But what really caught my eye was this quote: 

"The present cooperative system will be abolished, and the orchestra will be under the absolute control of the conductor and the Board of Directors," today's report says.

No cooperation?  Absolute control?  Sounds like a dictatorship!

In fact, older musicians I know who either played under or know someone who played under the likes of Arturo Toscanini, Erich Leinsdorf, and Fritz Reiner, to name a few daunting maestros that era, have told me stories of personal abuse and humiliation that certainly support that description.

A recent biography of Fritz Reiner, former conductor of the Chicago Symphony, is even entitled Fritz Reiner, Maestro and Martinet.

Above, I imagined what the notoriously volatile and quick-tempered Italian maestro, Arturo Toscanini, might do with the option of staring down his subservient players with red eyes.

Thankfully, most of the conductors I have played under have been absolute gentlemen (or ladies) and have been able to achieve their interpretive goals in cooperation with our orchestra and without the use of intimidation.

However, if our closer happens to come across as menacing in his attempt to simply reduce sun glare, I say why NOT take the red-eye flight to the game's finish?!